


Wrong

by SavageInkSpillage



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC) Spoilers, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Strong Friendship - Freeform, Worst ending spoilers, light gore, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageInkSpillage/pseuds/SavageInkSpillage
Summary: In the wake of the worst ending of the game (obvious spoilers), the crows of Velen speak of the white wolf. Their words strike fear into the heart of one with an ear for corvids; Regis intervenes, and fights for the life of his brother in all but blood. He fights for Geralt's life even if the witcher doesn't see the point of the exercise.Especially then.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	1. The discovery, the wait, the weight

Funny creatures, crows.

Not quite as eloquent as ravens, nor as… considered, in their opinions. They didn’t sing with quite the clarity their larger corvid cousins were want to, but then, they still sang. 

And Regis could still hear. 

He listened as they set the desolate planes of Velen alight with their fright, their flight, their confusion, until he could do naught but share in all of it. Spotting a lone crow sat on the edge of an abandoned structure, he swiftly called it down.

_ “What is it you fear, friend?” _

The smaller creature hopped to and fro on his palm, tense and suspicious. Gently, Regis lowered a sharp nail to scratch at the feathered head, then deposited a small offering of preserved beef before his unwilling messenger; if this message must be bought, he would do so. 

It seemed altogether too important to ignore, and parts bestial deep inside him were already stirring at the mere idea of grave, imminent danger.

_“They’re wrong. Wrong. Not like us.”_ spoke the bird.

_“Who?”_

_“Crone. Crone died. She’s crows now. They’re wrong.”_ it raised its head, beady eyes searing into Regis’ dark ones, insistent. 

The final crone had fallen? 

Instantly, Regis felt cold. He wished to deny the source of the feeling, just once, in all his years, deny the knowledge that now chilled him so. He’d chased wisdom in all his forms for longer than civilizations had lasted, thought he’d never tire, thought this pursuit would last him through the ages… damn it all, now, damn the crone… and damn the Witcher. 

His witcher.

_“Who felled her?”_ he did inquire, but then… _he knew_ , didn’t he?

_“White one. Dead. Dead! Dead. Feast for us. Wolf, feast.”_

The chill rose until it affixed his limbs to the earth, stilled ever inch of him. He even forewent breath, for all that it seemed a trespass to partake when one so dear to him could no longer indulge. 

Then, the moment passed. 

Regis hardened, eyes black. 

_“Living or dead, you shall not touch the White wolf. He is not yours to sate yourselves on. He is protected. Do not fear the Crone’s crows, for they are but magical in their origin; they do not differ from you, otherwise. Fear me, instead, and fear all I shall bring down upon you should but a morsel of my friend pass down your gullet! Go! Tell your brethren!”_

Like an arrow loosened, the crow shot from his hand. It was still screeching its little head off when Regis lost sight of it. Good.

Without thought, he let the weight of the corporeal fall from him and streaked toward Crookback Bog in a haze of blue and grey. He had to see it for himself. Had to… pay what respect he could. No ditch would do, for this witcher. No mere mutant’s grave.

The early evening light couldn’t quite catch on him, now. Nothing did. He went so quickly, so recklessly, he might even have been seen. But… well, no matter, that. There was naught but Geralt, now. That infernal mourning he’d mocked mortals for in the past, Geralt among them, now so strong he felt shame at ever having underestimated it. Would his witcher’s corpse accept an apology, perhaps?

Before long, he got there. 

The crones’ encampment lay quiet before him, death in the air and red on its soil; it was more than a crone that met its end here. He didn’t deign to reform into a more humanoid form yet, choosing instead to course along the dead until he spotted a familiar shock of white hair.

A staggering step on remade legs brought him forward. Forward unto the inevitable.

“Geralt!” his voice broke on the name. He wasn’t going to answer. He wasn’t. He _couldn’t._

Still, tender hands sought to bring the man out from under a pile of necrophages. With grief-softened voice, Regis implored his friend to wake. The higher vampire who let the death of a mortal, a witcher no less, rend his soul. Gods, his peers would never understand. And still, he let it happen. He let it rule him. For… at the end of everything, he understood that Geralt would have. 

He always did. Outcasts both. Monsters both. And each more known and understood in the eyes of the other than anyone else’s. It’d felt like… brotherhood. Like safety. Like a short respite from the world that ascribed nothing so human, and nothing so loving to either of them. 

“Thank you, Geralt. Thank you. I won’t forget.” the ageless being was brought to his knees, cradling the witcher to his chest, and crying.

It was only when he rested his cheek against Geralt’s head he noticed the man’s own trembling. Geralt was… shaking? 

He wasn’t dead.

_He wasn’t dead!_

“Geralt!”

Thinking quickly, Regis began to strip the man of his armour, calling on his vampiric form to make short work of the various latches and buckles.

“Alright, Geralt, let’s see how much labour you’ve managed to drum up for me.” 

A long gash ran down the length of his back to the upper part of his behind, so deep in places Regis could see vertebrae glistening in the waning light. Blood still oozed lazily from this, and many other wounds and bites and cuts along the witcher’s fallen form.

Dire, and achingly close to fatal, but Regis wouldn’t forfeit the life he held in his hands so easily. Not when he’d had a taste of the pain it would cause him. 

“I have you, my friend. Don’t worry.” 

With a smile and love in his eyes, he tore his own flesh open with sharp teeth, letting his blood drip down into the terrible wound along his chosen brother’s back. He hoped desperately it would serve to help the flesh there knit itself back together, at least enough to ensure the dear man would survive long enough for his mutations to kick in and finish the job. 

The whites of the vertebrae disappeared under new muscle, and Geralt moaned. Moved. Quickly, Regis moved around so he could face his friend. Swift hands stabilized his head and thumbs rubbed soothing circles on his cheeks.

“Easy, Geralt. Easy. I have you.”

Slowly, the man’s eyes opened to mere slits. Years of conditioning could not stop the grin that overtook the old vampire’s face then. 

“You’re safe.” his conviction, his warmth, he willed into the other man as best he could. Geralt, for his part, merely moved his lips soundlessly, his face a grimace. He seemed so… saddened. More than hurt. 

“C’ri…m’sorry. ’s lost.” Geralt’s fist closed around his friend’s tunic, and before Regis could ask him what he’d lost, or even soothe him, oblivion had taken him again.

Before night truly fell, Regis had him stitched and bandaged, laying in a bed in one of the buildings nearby, spared from battle. This place had once housed children, it seemed. Once. He hoped even those taken so young, so cruelly, could find rest on another sphere. If such existed. 

Gods, who knew. 

Whence would his friend have travelled, had he been just a little later? Would one such as he have been allowed to follow, should true death ever seize him? Probably not. It wasn’t made for him. Nothing was, really. Outsider eternal.

His only true tether to humanity lay under a pile of furs and shivered still. A miserable mass of bandages working harder to put himself together than even his mutant’s body could truly take, and now there was only time to tell wether the tie would be severed.

There was still Detlaff, he supposed. But… well, there was a reason he’d chosen to start wandering the world again, after traveling alongside Detlaff for a few years; he’d done his best to dull the fangs of Beauclair’s beast, and fiercely enjoyed his time in his company, but in the end stagnation began to chafe. It wouldn’t sate him. Finally fully recovered, he wanted nothing more than to tour the world he’d been torn from and reacquaint himself with its dangers, delights and eccentricities.

A Path, of sorts. All his own.

He’d chosen Velen because the aftermath of war left ample employment for a barber surgeon, and too much gratitude for free services to allow suspicion to take hold. It was good to be needed, he supposed. 

In due time, he’d make his way back to Toussaint. To Geralt. Because Geralt was supposed to be retired, enjoying life as a vintner, lord and master of Corvo Bianco. He wasn’t supposed to be out here, risking his life chasing Crones, losing swords to their flesh and leaving them where they lay. It was just… wrong.

As wrong as crows sprung from a dying witch’s corpse seemed to their brethren.

After Geralt’s breathing had strengthened enough for Regis to allow himself a temporary pause in his vigil, he’d walked the site of the battle once more. 

This time he took note of a witcher’s silver sword laying amidst what he figured would be the remnants of the crone. A smaller building’s door had been splintered by some great force, and therein lay a few more drowner and alghoul corpses. A painting of the crones hung amidst herbs and assorted offerings.

Inhumanly quick, he piled up every corpse he could find, drenched them in oil he’d found among the supplies for the encampment, and set them alight. None of their kin should come to darker their doorstep after this.

The painting, he threw on there too. Damn them all, let them slip from memory. Let them die a thousand times anew in the minds of others. Damn them for bringing Geralt to harm.

He did not stay to watch the flames rise, instead going back to attend to his patient. Seeing that the man still slept deeply, Regis set to cleaning the blood as best he could. The tedium of it was a tonic to him, soothing as a lullaby. Every few minutes, he’d mist up and hover above the white wolf’s sickbed to see that he still lived and healed.

He was far too weak to be moved, and would be for a while yet, so Regis did all he could to fortify their current dwelling, and to shield it from unwanted intrusions. Hence, the blood had to go.

Almost done, almost gone, and he spotted something interesting: a wolven school medallion, lost on the floor of the building with its door torn off.

But… he’d seen Geralt’s when he’d stripped him. Left it on his nightstand, even.

Had he lost a brother here? There were so few left to start with…

Suddenly, he understood. At least he thought he did. That was enough. 

He knew why Geralt had come here: this medallion.

He made short work of the remaining blood and gore and went back inside, locking the door tightly behind him. 

He slid down the wall near Geralt’s bed, and watched. Waited.

The medallion, he’d set beside its twin on the nightstand. For two days, whilst he valiantly tried to get herbal concoctions into his friend, battled his fever, and regularly bled himself to help the battered body remember what it was like to be whole, he pondered whose neck the thing could’ve been wrest from.

He pondered whether he should send word to Yennefer. Or to his Ciri. He wondered who else might’ve ventured out to find Geralt, had he never returned. Many would miss him, and deeply, acutely, but would they have found him before the crows had set upon him? Would they arrive soon enough to name the remnants of him, set him down on a pyre as befit his kin, and send him ascending up into the painted Velen skies? He deserved no less, after all. 

And, well… a witcher’s wraith would be a force untold. But then his friend would have spent his eternity in that same cold, dark place Vilgefortz had left Regis in. The deep, unending fear. No end for a brother, that. Regis’ hand tightened around Geralt’s wrist.

“I have you, Geralt.” he’d said it so many times now, it seemed like a chant. An incantation. Perhaps it was; Geralt’s fevered ravings halted whenever he said it. Glassy eyes would seek his, so human for the vulnerability therein it was easy to forget the vertical pupils and the golden glow. He would whimper, reach out. Seemed more wounded, more nakedly hurting than Regis had ever seen him. Even in previous dire straits, the man’d kept a better handle on his emotions than he did now. 

Something changed. _Something._

On the morning of the third day after finding him, Geralt’s fever broke, and he woke up. His vampiric nurse could tell. 

His heart said so. His breathing too. Still, he tried so hard to appear inanimate. He didn’t want to move.

Regis had called his name for half an hour, even attempted to manually coax his eyes open. He didn’t stir. He didn’t _want_ to. 

Sadness radiated off him, and his saviour sat before him, so patient, so scared. He just wanted to talk. He wanted to _know._

“Geralt? I want you to listen to me. Can you do that, at least? I know not what has harmed you so that you’ve deemed this world too painful to engage with, but I need you to know I am here now. It is as I’ve been saying: I have you. I will gladly share in your burdens, your pain. You are not alone. You don’t have to be. Nor do you have to… play dead, to escape. You will find yourself under my protection for as long as you wish, and for that time, I shall be here. When you find the strength, the will to talk, I will be here.”

The aging immortal gently laid a hand across his friend’s forehead, strangely warmed by the small act of Geralt pressing his head slightly further into his palm.

“…Regis?”

At long last, the spell was broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured the crows that fly off when the final crone falls would seem a little off to their non-magical brethren, which would be a good way to tip Regis off. Regis and Geralt have lots of things in common I was disappointed the game didn't really touch on, so this fic is my way of doing it anyway. For example, they never acknowledge that Geralt was also presumed dead, only to later turn up alive. You'd think if Regis knew he'd lost his memory, he'd also mention that bit. I also figure that his dismissiveness toward mortals' fight for life would have rubbed Geralt entirely the wrong way if he'd lost Ciri at that point, but the game makes no mention of it. Guess that's what fics are for, eh? 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, in any case!


	2. Unworthy

“Hello, Geralt. I am glad you’ve finally seen fit to join me, though I must confess I wonder what could have kept you for so long. Will you tell me?” Regis stayed beside the bed, on his knees. 

A long moment passed.

Cat’s eyes flicked nervously about the room, and Geralt said nothing. Always afraid to admit to any inner life, especially where it involved one less than joyous. Regis smiled a pitying little smile, fang just courting his lower lip, and looked so kind, so perfectly willing to spend his eternity waiting for an answer, Geralt found himself twisting away. A quick steadying hand stopped him, and Regis quietly admonished him. 

Knowing a losing battle when he saw one, Geralt heaved a sigh.

“I didn’t… think I’d wake up again. I wasn’t ready. ‘m sorry, Regis.” the prone man’s golden eyes were turned downward, fixed on the hand of his supposed saviour.

Whilst he was still looking at it, it moved. Tenderly and slowly, it sought his chin, moving his head until Regis loomed before him, insistent and undeniable.

“Don’t apologize, Geralt. Not to me, not for that. Do you feel better prepared now? Or did you merely tire of my nattering?”

Geralt’s mouth and facial muscles were hard at work on an answer, but it never came. A helpless, tense silence reigned until Regis took mercy on him and set the question aside. This resolved nothing, and Geralt knew it. 

Thus, the tension never waned. 

Maybe it wouldn’t ever. It’d been with him for so long now… all those years since he’d sat on his knees in a stone towerm wishing, waiting, hoping. He’d stared at the vacant space where once his greatest love, his heart, had been, with all he had. 

All he had. That she was. 

And when she died, it left him with nothing. 

She’d been the one to make his heart sing with melodies witchers shouldn’t even know, the one to make him love tenderly and entirely, not just… physically, carnally. 

Without his Ciri, his heart lay dead in his chest. Just… weight. Fit for no end. Naught left for Yennefer to enjoy, naught for her to connect to, though she’d tried. Of course she’d lost her daughter as well. Her heart was as wounded as his, and together they were… even worse for each other than they’d been before, which probably said a lot. 

So she went her way, and Geralt went his, and they tried to forget. In the end, no Djinn could tie them together more strongly than the child of their hearts.

No greater force than his girl. His girl who died in a far off realm, overcome by ice. Alone, scared, with only snow for a tomb and no kind words to send her off with. 

Her father could do nothing for her. Even now whilst Geralt enjoyed this unearned kindness, she lay there. Dead. Beyond his reach.

_ Dead. _

He couldn’t breathe for the certainty of it. Couldn’t breathe for the certainty she’d pried him off a pogrom pitchfork and saved him, and he didn’t save her in turn. 

She exposed herself to the wild hunt to wrest him from their clutches and spent the last years of her existence on the run, and he didn’t save her in turn. 

It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.

He failed her and she died knowing it, and for whatever else Geralt managed to do with this abundance of time he didn’t fucking deserve, that would never change. 

She was dead.

He was a failure.

_ She was dead. _

_ He was a failure. _

This was supposed to be his penance: to die alone, scared, overwhelmed. 

Just like her.

Why was he still here? Why was he still alive?

He’d failed her again, hadn’t he? 

_ Again. _

Geralt didn’t notice when his limbs started to shake, or when his breathing became laboured and his eyes unfocussed:

This wasn’t him falling apart. He’d done that already; came apart and held the jagged pieces together so that he may fall on his own terms.

Robbed of even that, they just… spilled. Everywhere. 

Distantly, he was aware of Regis calling his name. Holding him. Urging him to take breaths he didn’t deserve.

His very flesh should scald even a higher vampire. 

He was a _monster_. More monstrous than that which he’d spent his whole life killing. Why didn’t Regis see it?

“What’re… why’re you…” Geralt stammered weakly. 

“Geralt! Come on, breathe with me. Easy. Easy now…” the events unfolding before his eyes had confused the ancient vampire greatly, worried him even more, but for all that he didn’t understand he was still a healer. And a friend. 

He understood pain. He understood that his very soul protested at the sight of one he so loved so utterly undone. His hands worked to rub his frantic friend’s chest, touch his face. Anything to recall him to the present. To the warm room where no danger lurked and all was well. They were okay.

“We’re okay. We’re okay… c’mon now my dear witcher, return to me. No harm shall come to you in my presence. I would stake all my years on that, and you know I mean it. We’re well, Geralt. Quiet now…” 

Geralt didn’t even hear Regis pledge his long lived life to his protection, and if he had, it wouldn’t have soothed him much. He merely felt the sheer effort to calm him, bourne of more love than he was worthy of. 

It hurt, too. Everything did. 

Ciri died and took this world’s light with her.

“Stop. _Stop. Don’t, Regis_.” not even blind panic could lend Geralt the strength to evade a higher vampire, but he didn’t care. The struggle was the point. All he could do and all he wished to do. 

“No, Geralt, no, listen to me. Tell me what I can do. What do you need, Geralt?”

No better answer ever came. In a last ditch effort to get his friend to reattach to the present time without having to drug him senseless first, Regis swiped the second medallion from the nightstand and held it in front of the raving witcher. A forceful hand kept his head and eyes fixed in place until they could land on it.

“Whose is this?” the vampire’s voice boomed. Too loud, too low, too resonant. One of those things higher vampires could do Regis had long ago decided not to. Needs must and fear demanded, he supposed.

And it worked, too. Instantly, the man stilled in his arms, reaching for the medallion as fast as he could.

He held it to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. Seemed to caress it. Her name left his lips without him even hearing.

“Where is she, Geralt?” of course Regis still did. Tears in his dark eyes, hesitation in the question; he already knew. This explained everything.

“Dead.” at the word, the vision of her lifeless corpse overwhelmed him again, and stole whatever else he might’ve said.

After this, he just lay there. His meagre reserves thoroughly depleted and well overdrawn, back bleeding anew. His senses didn’t deliver his ancient friend’s heartfelt condolences. He just lay there and let life inflict itself upon him.

After he’d been cleaned and bandaged anew, he found the courage to ask for oblivion.

“I’m so tired, Regis… Sleep… please?”

A few short moments later, a concoction appeared at his lips.

After that, nothing.

* * *

Never had a being with no need for rest felt such exhaustion. So powerful, yet now helpless.

Regis had downplayed grief before, whenever the matter arose; why mourn numbered days, why battle needlessly against a certain end?

A vulgar imitation of mannerisms vampiric and dismissive, nothing more.

That which his kin scoffed at could kill a mortal:  
By love bound, by love damned. Wholly and utterly. 

Even as Regis had questioned the sense in delaying a foregone conclusion, he’d known himself to be completely willing to do whatever he had to to ensure Geralt’s count marched onward, as high as it could possibly go. Gods, he was a surgeon by trade. That was all he ever did:

He helped the damned hoard their numbers, that they might partake of all they could before they were bade to go. Their short lives were a tragedy in and of itself, to curtail even them was just… unjust. Unfair.

Ciri couldn’t have been much older than 20 at the time of her demise… a pittance.

Absentmindedly, Regis carded his fingers through Geralt’s hair. A whole night, he stayed there on his knees. 

By the time the first streaks of daylight hit his still sleeping patient, he had a plan; when Geralt was healed to a satisfactory degree, they would make their way to Novigrad. Geralt needed to be reminded of what still remained for him in this world, and Dandelion and Zoltan would doubtless be up to the task.

Whilst Regis hoped and planned, Geralt’s overwrought mind saw fit to serve him turbulent dreams. Under the weight of the tonic he’d been given, he couldn’t show much, nor say much, but it was enough to keep his carer engaged until he woke again. That, again, took three days. 

Geralt’s back had at this point healed enough for him to rest comfortably on it, instead of his side.

“Hello Geralt,” 

When Geralt opened his eyes again, he found Regis halfheartedly perusing a forgotten tome at his bedside. Idly, he wondered what literature could possibly hail from a place like this. A recipe for broth from children’s bones, perhaps? 

On the cusp of amusement, a stab at his chest reminded him of the painful choice he’d had to make. His mirth died almost instantly.

“Hey Regis…” the prone wolf’s eyes didn’t quite raise yet.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I suppose… I… Regis-“ Geralt went to explain himself, but was stopped by a soft order from his friend, who now once again lowered his face so they could be eye to eye.

“No need to explain, Geralt, none at all… I understand. I’m very sorry for your loss, my dear friend; to mourn is no great shame, especially not when the object of it is so dear to you, so deserving of it. Don’t excuse that.”

“I… maybe you’re right. But it’s been so long, and I just… I’m a witcher. I’m not supposed to have emotions, remember?”

Regis scoffed at this, voice sharp in rebuttal. “Nonsense and slander, Geralt. Don’t tell me you’ve been taking that to heart all these years?”

“No, but… other people believe it, and that means I’m not free to do… y’know, what I did. People don’t want me to. They can’t deal with it. I think I just... I needed to be in the company of someone who would understand. So… thank you, Regis.” now the golden eyes sought dusk darkened ones, and a moment passed in gratitude.

“You are very welcome indeed, Geralt.”

There was still entirely too much to be discussed but for the moment the barber-surgeon looked upon his patient, his sallow, grief-thinned patient, and decided that the man was due a good square meal and decidedly lighter duties than a full inquiry into his evidently compromised mental state.

The rest of this particular day was lost in quiet conversation, accompanied by servings of light stew and frequent naps.

Occasionally the conversation did stray near something painful. Regis was shocked and dismayed to find that poor Cirilla’s demise predated their little Toussaint adventure with Detlaff.

“Why on earth didn’t you say! Gods Geralt, I…”

“You would have treated me differently, Regis. Placed yourself in harm’s way again to spare me the trouble. I couldn’t have that, do you understand me? Not again. Not so soon. I meant what I said back then: I stayed involved because you were. I did it for you, and I ain’t sorry.”

Regis couldn’t find anything to say to that, so instead he asked a question he’d been pondering for a good while.

“…is that why you spared Detlaff?”

“Yeah… I’m mortal, aren’t I? I’ll be gone one day and you’ll still be here. With Detlaff around you’ll have someone to go to when you need it. You won’t just be… alone. I didn’t want that for you, not after I found out what that’s like.”

“Are you?” Regis wanted to remind him of Yennefer, Zoltan, Dandelion, Triss… of him, right there. But he knew beyond doubt that perception trumped reality, and if Geralt truly believed himself to be alone, then he may as well be.

“…Yeah. Yen and I tried to make it work, but without Ciri… Yen was just better at getting on with it; she thought I was trying to make it seem like I’d loved Ciri more than she had, like I was putting on a show, but I just… I didn’t know what to do, and she did. Guess she’s always been stronger than me, even when she’s hurting like hell. Maybe one day we can figure this out but… not now.”

A clawed hand found one of his, and his eyes flickered up to catch an encouraging smile.

“I guess I… I don’t know. Dandelion and Zoltan build me up so much, I didn’t know what to do around them when I felt... like I didn’t deserve it. It was just painful, and I could tell it upset them. I left Roach in the stables nearby and walked away.”

“Oh, dear Geralt…” came the words with exasperated fondness.

“What?” 

“Did it ever occur to you that it upset them to see you laid low in such a way not because you’d toppled your pedestal, but because they care deeply for you?”

“I… maybe, yeah.” he sounded unsure, and altogether too hesitant.

“…but?”

“…I don’t deserve it. Any of this… I…”

Before Geralt could say more, he was stunned to silence by an embrace only just held back from being crushing. 

“Hush, Geralt. I beg of you, do not utter such nonsense ever again, lest it become more embedded than it already seems to be: It simply isn’t true. Luckily my ministrations depend in no way on your belief, and I can promise you I would see you well again whether you want it or not.”

Geralt just sat there, chastised and quiet.

By the waning light of dusk, Regis left Geralt’s sickroom for the first time in days. He coursed through the trees for quite some time until he spotted a flock of crows on a nearby tree. Once again, he called to one of their number. After a heartfelt apology and a tasty bribe, he sent the messenger off toward Novigrad with a message tied around its paw.

A few days wait would bring the remnants of the hansa to them with Roach in tow, and then they’d set off for Novigrad together.

Satisfied, Regis returned to his post.

Geralt was fast asleep upon his return.

Out of reading materials for the time being, frayed with worry and laden with an exhaustion more mental than physical, Regis leant back against the side of the bed and allowed himself the indulgence of slumber.

Their night was lost to the quiet dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My measurement of distance between Novigrad and Crookback Bog is more to serve the story than anything that could be gleaned from the game, just so you know. I also figure that Geralt would ensure Roach was somewhere safe if he intended to enter a fight he knew he'd lose, hence she's in the care of Dandelion and Zoltan. Lastly, I have to say that I have nothing against Geralt and Yennefer as a pairing, I just think losing a child would have an immense impact, and I also always figured they'd each grieve differently, which can be very alienating if you're just looking to be understood.
> 
> More talk between Geralt and Regis slated for the next chapter, so I hope you're enjoying it!


	3. Maelstrom

Another week passed as Regis valiantly tried to put his friend back together.

For much of that time, a storm raged outside, though it became increasingly clear that whatever was tearing through Geralt’s mind could put any inclement weather to shame. 

Something tore the healer from the quiet of another slow night’s rest. It should’ve felt disruptive, frightening, perhaps even left him to panic… but it didn’t. 

By now, two weeks after finding Geralt, this had become familiar. Even if it ached and tore at his insides still, the vampire had ceased to consider this particular intrusion a surprise.

“Oh, Geralt…” the words came, strained, desperate. 

“Easy Geralt, easy now… you’re with me. You’re safe. Please just be still, please…” _please don’t tear let him tear his stitches again, please let him come out of the dark, please wake up… just please stop this. Please, don’t let this fabled warrior fall to his own mind, don’t let him slip from this sphere with barely a whisper as his fractured heart releases itself from its function._

With practiced swiftness, the immortal caged his patient’s flailing limbs, held him down, spoke to him. This again. This which slowed his healing and poisoned the mind already so fragile.  Every time, Regis felt himself a failure; a failure with a lamentable inability to just mend this as he would a bone, or a jagged cut.

Damn the minds of mortals, strong enough to fell them. Damn those trials for all they’d inflicted and every emotion they’d apparently failed utterly and completely to erase. The frustration of it all elongated his claws, drew a bestial, guttural growl from deep inside of him.

In response, a small whimper reached his ears, and in an instant he’d grown calm again; if witchers could love, monsters could too, and Regis, in his love, was soft. Gentle. _Human._

“I’m sorry, dear friend, forgive me.” 

“Regis? Is something wrong?” it was clear that the witcher’s disoriented mind could not adequately assess the danger it clearly perceived, leaving him tense and poised to fight or flee, never mind that his state clearly didn’t allow for either. Or too much of anything else, for that matter.

A hand descended upon his shoulder and pressed him down onto the pillows.

“We are well, Geralt. I’m afraid I lost my temper for a moment. A momentary lapse, that’s all. Don’t trouble yourself with it, please.” and Regis tried to smile. He really did. As it stood, he looked closer to tears.

“Sorry…”

“Whatever for, Geralt? It was nothing, I assure you.” the elder spoke with empassioned emphasis: his patient really didn’t need more guilt, more hurt. And besides, it had proved hard enough for the man to cope with these same ill feelings that spawned nightmares as it was. He didn’t need to be made to feel that to show trace of them, to experience them, was somehow an unwelcome disturbance.

To hide came too easily to his dear mutant, and Regis knew that those whom hid would never heal. But Geralt had to. He simply had to. 

“I don’t mean to be… difficult. I hope you know that.” breathed the invalid. Released from his nightly torment, Geralt lay bonelessly on the bed. His mind was so overwhelmed that for just a few short moments it seemed too cramped to fit any coherent thought. And for a few short, blessed moments, there was nothing at all.

Geralt took the hand from his shoulder and hung on to it, peering at Regis through half lidded eyes.

“I do, Geralt. Believe me, I do. Do not mistake my anger at myself for any ill will towards you, my friend. I can assure you I harbour none. It is true that this has proven… strenuous, but I do believe it has been so for us both, you far, far more than I. I just wish I could serve you better than this, that’s all.”

“I’d have been dead if not for you, ain’t that enough?” Geralt’s eyes closed, but he remained awake.

“You know damned well it isn’t, Geralt. Please stop feigning this damnable lack of self-insight: it’s me you’re speaking to. I know you, and I know you have ever felt far more than you wish the world to know. That is fine. The world isn’t here, Geralt, so whilst I have the sole pleasure of your company I would like you to drop the illusion; it must be taking energy you don’t have.”

“What do you want me to say, Regis? Want me to bear my soul to you?” fear made Geralt’s voice sharp. He snatched his hand away from Regis’ and crossed his arms. Cat’s eyes opened, glared. 

Were he not emaciated and bedridden, the vampire might’ve quaked in his boots.

“I…” the surgeon sighed, rubbed a hand across his ancient face. “I want to talk about these nightmares of yours. I want you to acknowledge your anxiety attacks. I wish to share in what I know must burden you greatly, instead of sitting idly by as it devours you and you pretend you do not feel its teeth tearing you piece by piece. I am not protected by your denials, Geralt, and neither are you, though I know you must think so.”

“I’m fine, Regis.” it sounded as wavering and fragile as the witcher felt.

“When sleep takes you, nightmares steal any true rest, then when you wake, you barely speak. You struggle to maintain eye-contact. Your wounds are not healing at the rate they should, and whatever healing takes place is summarily ruined when the next nightmare comes and you tear yourself open, only to wake and say nothing, do nothing but quiver where you lay and expect me to believe that you are, in fact, fine. Geralt, you are not fucking fine. And that’s… You do not have to be. But just let me help you, please.” Regis’ diatribe built to a scathing cresendo, then tapered off until all the edges of him were dulled once more and he appeared at his friend’s bedside merely… asking. Again.

“I…” Geralt swallowed nervously. Golden eyes darted around the room and somewhere in his chest something constricted in that dreaded, now all too familiar way.

This time, though, he didn’t yield to the fear, didn’t let it rule him. For Regis, and for the bone tiredness that weighed him down, he let the world pass him by and focussed on taking practiced breaths instead. 

In, out. In, out.

By the time a hand sought his sternum to rub comforting circles on his chest, he was calm enough to find it soothing.

“Well done, Geralt.” the smile on the old vampire’s face was real, and tender.

“I don’t know what to do, Regis.” said the witcher, at long last. It had been true since Ciri’s death, but only now, here, in this accursed place it seemed he’d never leave, could he voice it.

“I never thought about the future before… I was a witcher. I was gonna die like one; on the path, in a ditch. Nothing to figure out but the next contract and the next meal, on and on until eventually it was over. That was… easy. It was finite. I could handle that. But then suddenly I had her, and everything she could be, and everything just… opened up. I started planning ahead, I started thinking not in days at a time but months, or even years… then she was gone again, and it just seemed like too much time for me alone. It didn’t make sense anymore. How do you do it, Regis? How do you wrap your head around so damned much of it?”

Geralt spoke softly but clearly. Seemingly exhausted but propelled onward by some strange desire to talk to perhaps the only being he could count on to have an answer; his immortal friend was cursed with an infinite amount of days to fill. 

“I… I rather suspect it comes easier to us, for our perception of time differs from yours. Years are but blinks of an immortal’s eye, I’m afraid. What’s more, our tether to this world isn’t as strong as yours… we need nothing from it; we’ll persist regardless, so if we wish to, we can simply… detach. But I have tried, Geralt, and I can tell you I felt more alive travelling with our Hansa than I did lounging about gorging myself on blood. I felt more prepared to brave the day when I was once again granted the honour of falling into step beside you than I did when I was reckless, young, and tried so desperately to be what I am not. There is beauty in allowing oneself to be present. To simply let oneself love and be loved in return, even if the act itself opens you up to later grief, later pain. When I’m among friends, I feel as though, even for a little while, this sphere has a place for me. There’s a seat at the table, and it’s mine. I could pass all my days like that, Geralt.”

In response, the prone witcher briefly dared meet his friend’s eyes. An encouraging smile blossomed on the elder’s face.

“For as long as I live, for as long as Dandelion lives, and Zoltan, and even your Yennefer, there will be a seat at our table for our dearest Witcher. Your Ciri wouldn’t want otherwise.”

Geralt stayed silent, tears coursing down his face. Regis appeared at his side, steadfast and prepared as ever, and gently helped him clean up.

After a long moment of silence, a smile broke out on his face. A true smile, of the kind Regis had not yet seen since he’d landed on the bog.

“She brought me back…” he said, as though it explained everything.

“Geralt?” asked Regis, relieved by the smile yet confused by the statement.

“A few years ago, in Rivia… there was a pogrom, people rounding up non-humans, stringing ‘em up, that sort of thing. Pitchforks and all. I tried to stop them. Help at least a few folks get away, y’know? And I… I died. Someone ran me through. Yen tried to save me, opened herself up to danger that way. She died too. I remember staring up at the sky for the last time, wondering if everyone else was gonna make it out. I could hear Dandelion screaming. I think I thought of you, then. The rest of the Hansa too: I wondered whether you’d felt like this too, before you went… but Ciri, she… she brought us back.”

“That’s… I don’t quite know what to say to that, my friend.” for once, Regis fell speechless.

“Shame… I was hoping we could compare notes on returning from the dead.”

They shared a startled laugh at the sheer absurdity of their shared circumstance. Emboldened by the strength he saw returning to the figure before him, Regis dared lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and speak directly to him once more; “Your life was a gift from her. Honour her, then, and do not exchange it. To die is not due penance; it is a betrayal of what you were given.”

Eye contact proved too difficult again, so Regis gently hooked a finger under his chin and bade him to look him in the eye.

“You don’t have to be fine, Geralt. I know what you came here to do, and you know I will not let that come to pass. Let yourself rest, let yourself heal. Do not fear the discovery of that which I already know. You may feel freely, dear witcher. Do not hide.”

So gentle, came the words.

“I came here to die.” Geralt said, bluntly. A test, to see if Regis truly understood as much as he thought he did. And indeed, the man barely batted an eye.

“I know, Geralt.” impossibly gentle, achingly sad, but without reproach; Regis had had to fill the many days on the bog with _something_ , especially since Geralt still needed an overabundance of rest, and frankly there were only so many tomes on black magic and the enhancement of Orphan Stew a man could stomach... corvids weren't too bad company, actually. And they'd told tale of a white wolf who'd swept the land settling debts, selling off swords, armour, potions. 

Selling off his earthly tethers so that he may fly, later. Beyond all reach.

Yes, Regis had known for a while. 

“I’m glad you’re here…” a slow drawl dribbled from the witcher’s mouth; sleep looked poised to claim him again.

“Me too, my friend. Sleep well.” Regis pulled the various furs over his friend’s form and settled back into his familiar spot on the floor against the mattress.

Silence reigned, and silence lasted, and for once it seemed golden.

From that night onward, the vampire sensed a change in his charge. Something as simple as the willingness to try, the courage to reach out, well… it changed little, and simultaneously everything. Hope always did.

As the maelstrom inside the white wolf died down, so did the storm outside. 

Finally, shortly after Regis confirmed his friend’s healing speed finally seemed on par with the speed at which his kin usually mended themselves, a poet, a dwarf, and a horse arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter did not come easy. Think I have a handle on where I'm going now, though! Hope you're still along for the ride!


End file.
